What If
by Frisco
Summary: What if the Stargate program didn't exist? SG-1's episode, Moebius, created an AU world where that happened. Where might Atlantis' people have been? WARNING: Possible AU character deaths.


_A/N: At the end of Stargate SG-1's 8__th__ season, SG-1 goes back in time to find a ZPM that was located in Egypt during the time of Ra (see the original Stargate movie for more on him). Their presence there changes the timeline so that Ra takes the Stargate with him when he leaves resulting in the Stargate program never existing. This is a look at how the lives of our intrepid band from Atlantis might have been affected. (Thankfully, SG-1 fixes the timeline, and they get the ZPM which arrives Atlantis in The Siege Pt 3)._

* * *

**Prologue**

Elizabeth entered the last of her notes on the rescue mission and hit 'save'. She added it to the list of files to be sent back to the SGC, checked her email a final time, and powered down the laptop. Massaging her temples, she glanced at her watch and groaned. Paperwork would be the death of her yet. Death…. They had come so close to losing them. Again.

Flipping off her office light, she made her way to the infirmary. Carson had sent her regular updates, but she needed to see them one more time, needed the visual proof that they were alive. She exited the transporter and tip-toed through the doors as they swished open. Monitors produced an eerie light show that danced to the tune of the hums and beeps of machines.

Weir paused at the foot of Teyla's bed, wincing at the woman's mottled features – one eye swollen shut, split lip, and a nasty gash on her forehead. Her shoulder was swathed in bandages. Beckett had removed the spike and the splinters it left, assuring her that the Athosian would regain full range of motion after some intense physical therapy.

Ronon slept fitfully in the next bed. Elizabeth had been unsure of him at first, but now she couldn't imagine this team without him. Miraculously the three stab wounds in his chest had missed vital organs, but the resulting infection had almost cost him his life. A broken nose and jaw, four missing teeth, a torn ACL, and a dislocated shoulder rounded out his injuries.

Stepping out of the nurse's way as she hung a new bag of fluids, Weir moved to stand between the beds occupied by Sheppard and McKay. The soldier had the most serious injuries – burn marks down his back, broken ribs, a punctured lung, skull fracture, and more bruises than she could count. She had never met anyone with John's strength, his ability to not only survive against all odds but to convince those around him to do so as well.

A moan pulled her attention to Rodney. Nothing had surprised her more than the man McKay had become. The one who had declared dealing with people a waste of his brainpower now lay unconscious with the rest of his team. He had one arm in a cast from wrist to mid-humerous. His other hand was taped and splinted – each finger broken. The right side of his face was one big bruise, and only Carson's talent had saved his lacerated kidney.

Elizabeth hadn't been sure anything could rattle Major Lorne, but the man's jaw had been clenched so tightly when he came through the gate with them she was afraid he was going to break a few teeth. His report was terse and included words like "deplorable" and "inhumane". When she questioned him further, his features paled and hardened.

"Well, ma'am," he'd said. "Frankly, I don't know how they're still alive. Sheer will, I guess. They were huddled together in a ball in a corner of the most ungodly prison I've ever seen. The cell was…. God, I can't get the smell out of my nose. The other prisoners gave them a wide berth, though. McKay snarled like a dog, and Teyla fought me when I got too close. If I ever find the people who did this to them…."

Weir had agreed completely with the sentiment. No one treated her people like this and got away with it. But she had no idea what had happened and wouldn't until one of them woke and was alert enough to talk.

Her gaze swept over the team again. So close…. She hated to think about what would happen if they didn't have each other.

**

* * *

Elizabeth Weir**

The incessant ringing of the phone finally pierced her sleep-addled brain. She jerked awake and turned on the bedside lamp, squinting as the brightness attacked her pupils. Elizabeth glanced at the clock while trying to find the phone. _Who could possibly be calling her at 4:03 AM?_ She was on vacation, dammit. Clearing her throat, she picked up the receiver.

"Elizabeth Weir."

"Please hold for the President."

_Of the United States?_ She was awake now. Sitting up straight, she smoothed her hair, _as if he could see her_, and searched desperately for the glass of water she kept on her nightstand.

Finding it, she took a sip as a series of clicks transferred her.

"Good morning, Dr. Weir. I apologize for the early hour, but I need your help."

"Of course, Mr. President. No need to apologize. What can I do for you?"

"We received word a few minutes ago that Yasser Arafat has died. We may have a good opportunity in the next few weeks to help establish a meaningful dialogue between Israel and Palestine. I need you here to discuss negotiating tactics. You have a reservation on the next flight out of London. A car will be at your hotel in thirty minutes."

"Yes, Sir. I'll be ready."

As soon as she hung up the phone, Weir leapt from the bed and ran to the shower. She dressed, combed her fingers through her hair, and frantically searched for her right shoe while she threw the rest of her clothes in the suitcase. Satisfied that she'd gathered everything, she raced downstairs and finished checking out as her car pulled to the door.

The plane was at thirty thousand feet before she realized she had forgotten to call Simon to tell him about the change in plans. She tipped her head back as her fingers drummed on the armrest. Simon. _What was she going to do?_

She loved Dr. Simon Wallace, at least she thought she did. They had been dating for six years now, and the relationship was comfortable. He had his medical practice; she dealt in international political negotiations. They had similar tastes in books, movies, fine wine, and gourmet food. They conversed for hours on a variety of subjects and truly enjoyed each other's company.

She had barely arrived home from the Baltic talks when she'd been sent to China to hammer out a trade agreement which she finished five weeks ago. She was tired – physically, mentally, emotionally. She had wanted to curl up on the sofa and sleep for a month. Her second night home, Simon had taken her to their favorite Moroccan restaurant and proposed. To say she had been shocked was an understatement.

OoOoOoOoO

"Marriage? Now? After all this time?" she asked.

"Why not now?" The corners of his eyes pinched together, and he leaned back, dabbing at this mouth with a napkin before dropping it in his lap.

"Sorry. You simply caught me off guard since we've never discussed marriage. I think I'm still a bit jet lagged, too."

"That's just it, Elizabeth; you're always jet lagged."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He reached for her hand. "I hardly ever see you. You're in Russia one minute and Egypt the next. Is this the kind of life you want to lead, living out of a suitcase constantly?"

"Simon, this is what I do, who I am. You know that about me. Why is it suddenly an issue?"

"It's not suddenly an issue. It's been one for some time. You just haven't been home long enough to notice."

She pulled her hand away and studied his face. "What are you trying to say?"

His gaze dropped to the table briefly, and he took a deep breath. "I'm saying I'm ready to settle down, plant roots, have kids, drive a mini-van, all the things that normal people do."

"Oh." She felt her breath knocked from her by his words. "Oh, Simon. Why haven't you ever said anything?"

His eyes burned into hers with intensity. "We've always had so much in common. I was hoping you would come to the same conclusion on your own."

She stared at him in confusion. "What exactly are you asking of me?"

"I've already asked you. Marry me, Elizabeth."

"And then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"After the wedding, then what? Quit my job? Give up my career to play house with you?"

His jaw tightened as he looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. "Is that how you see marriage? As playing house?"

"No. I see marriage as a commitment between equals. How do you see it?"

"As a series of compromises between two people that love each other."

"Then why should I be the only one giving up doing what I love?"

"Because you travel the world for your job. You're gone months at a time. What kind of marriage would that be?"

OoOoOoOoO

_What kind, indeed_. They had left it unresolved. She needed time to relax and decide what she wanted in life. She had flown to her favorite hotel in London and had hidden from him and the world for the past month. She loved history, spending hours in the museums, and the countryside. But her mind had continually shied away from Simon.

Now, as she stared at the Atlantic below her, she knew she'd made a decision before she'd even left the States. She didn't love Simon enough to give up everything for him. He fit her, like an old pair of jeans, molded and familiar, but they didn't want the same things in life. Her pulse had raced at the thought of helping reconstruct the Mid-East peace process. She couldn't remember the last time her heart had pounded like that for him.

She determined to make time to see him before leaving again. She would break it to him gently and move any of her things from his home to her Georgetown apartment. She felt something settle inside of her. Maybe she would meet a man one day with whom she could raise a family. She wasn't opposed to children, but there was no place in her life right now for that. She couldn't afford to divide her focus.

Leaning her head back, she was almost asleep when the gentleman next to the window cleared his throat.

"Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but can you let me pass?"

"Of course." Elizabeth unbuckled the seat belt and stood to allow him by.

"Thanks, love."

His blue eyes twinkled when he smiled at her, his face shining with happiness, and she smiled back. She was a sucker for accents, too. He returned and was seated in time for the flight attendant to take drink orders.

"I'll have hot tea, please," she requested.

"Make that two."

After receiving her steaming cup, she introduced herself to him. "I'm Elizabeth Weir."

He shook her hand. "Carson Beckett. A pleasure."

"Likewise, Mr. Beckett."

"Dr. Beckett, actually, but please call me Carson."

"Carson it is. What kind of doctor?"

"I'm a surgeon at Yorkhill, but I've been doing a bit of genetic research at the University of Glasgow. What do you do?"

"I'm a diplomat."

"Are you now?" He sipped his tea, appraising her over his cup. "Are you any good?"

She grinned at him. "I'm very good."

"We can use a few good ones these days, that's for certain. Are you working on something now?"

Lazily stirring her tea, she kept a neutral expression. "Not at present."

"Ah. Can't talk about it then."

"What about you? What brings you to DC?"

"I'm getting married."

"That explains the blissful expression you have. Congratulations. Does she live in the States?"

"North Carolina. Her name is Heather."

"Good Scottish name."

He laughed. "That's how I knew she was the right one. She isn't Scottish though, but then no one is perfect. She's a pediatrician in Raleigh. The wedding will be there next weekend."

Curiosity got the better of her. "Then what? Will you move here, or will she move there?"

"We're both moving, actually. I've secured a position at the Center for Human Genetic Research at Massachusetts General, and she's bought into a private practice in Cambridge."

Elizabeth felt a pang at the idea of two people so willing to leave behind everything and start over together. She couldn't, wouldn't, do that for Simon, and she was more certain than ever that she was right to end the relationship.

"What kind of research will you be doing?"

They spent the next several hours discussing genetics, favorite international spots, the merits of haggis, the brilliance of JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis, the best places to eat in Boston, and the differences in Gaelic and Celtic. She was almost sorry when the plane landed.

"Carson, it has truly been a pleasure meeting you. I wish you and Heather the best."

"Thank you, Elizabeth, and likewise."

A car escorted her to the White House, and she smiled at the serious young Marine standing guard duty while her credentials were confirmed. If he stood any straighter she thought his spine might snap. She peeked at his name tag; learning who the people were around her was an idiosyncrasy of hers. Lieutenant Ford. She had to admire his caution; his gaze didn't linger on any one thing for more than a split second, and she was convinced he could describe everything in the room in detail without taking another glance. No one was getting past him.

She was handed several position papers on the Palestinian and Israeli perspectives which she would devour as soon as she had a chance, but the next several hours were devoted to meetings. When she left late that night, she was completely drained. She collapsed on her bed fully dressed, asleep before her head hit the pillow.

OoOoOoOoO

The next few weeks flew by. Negotiations began in earnest after the dignitaries returned from the funeral, and her proficiency in languages secured her place in meetings with both sides. She spent hours pouring over newspapers and other publications to find bargaining chips to use. The flight to Camp David as secret talks began was exhilarating as was sitting at the table with the President while an accord was struck.

What on Earth could be more exciting than this?

**

* * *

Teyla Emmagan**

Teyla trudged slowly across the meadow to the forest that hid the Athosian's current settlement. Winter had arrived early this year, frosting the ground with snow. They had barely finished the harvest as the short days of Athos had become shorter still.

Consumed by sorrow, her thoughts lingered on the world from which she had returned. The culling had been unexpected as always, though not surprising. Her heart broke at the devastation she had seen, and she grieved the loss of Tyrus and Sora. The Athosians and Genii had long been trading partners and would continue to be, but her visits would no longer be as joyful.

She paused at the tree line to gather herself. She would mourn her lost friends in private; duty did not allow for signs of fear or weakness. Her people would gauge her reactions and respond accordingly to the news, and she determined to project a calmness and assurance that she did not feel.

After a moment, she continued to the camp. She had hoped to bring a supply of clistan, her favorite Genii drink, for use in the harvest celebration. To return empty-handed would immediately signal trouble.

Children's laughter greeted her as she neared the edge of the settlement. Two young boys darted from behind the brush in their usual game of Wraith-Chase, and she side-stepped them deftly.

"Jinto, Wex. Are you boys done with your lessons?"

Wex pulled the Wraith mask from his face. "We just finished."

"My father said you were going to see the Genii today," Jinto said as he tried to steal the mask. "Did they not want to trade?" He looked at her with such innocent eyes that she had to turn away.

"No, Jinto, they did not want to trade today. I do need to speak with your father. Is he at your tent?"

The boy shrugged. "I think so. The hunting party returned before we left."

"Thank you. Have fun, but do not stray far from the camp," she admonished.

"Yes, Teyla," they chorused as Jinto snatched the mask and ran, Wex right on his heels.

She walked intently toward Halling's tent, successfully evading or deflecting questions as she went. Standing at the entrance, she called, "It is Teyla."

"Enter," he responded.

She pulled open the flap and ducked inside. Halling finished straightening the linens of Jinto's bed and faced her, his eyes narrowing as he studied her features.

"What is wrong?" he asked.

She tried to hold his gaze but could not, the sorrow again welling up. "There has been a culling."

"The Genii?"

She nodded, attempting to swallow the lump in her throat. "Yes," she whispered. "Tyrus and Sora were taken along with many others."

He sat down heavily at his table. "Will this never end?"

"Not in our lifetimes, I fear."

"Do you think we need to move the camp?"

"I do not know, Halling. We have no reason to suspect a culling, but then neither did the Genii." She joined him at the table, massaging her temples with her fingertips. "Would moving the camp really solve anything?"

He considered her question for a moment. "Most likely not, but it would give our people something to focus on and perhaps a measure of safety."

Teyla regarded him sadly. "You are correct. We will celebrate the harvest tomorrow as planned. I do not wish to inform the others until after that. Thank you for your counsel."

They stood and faced each other, leaning until their foreheads touched. "Until tomorrow."

OoOoOoOoO

The Harvest Celebration had always been Teyla's favorite time of the year. The hard work of planting, tending and reaping had finally come to an end. Every Athosian played some part in it, and the festivities were a reflection of that. It was a time of joy and gratitude for the provision for the upcoming winter.

Teyla and Halling had kept the Genii culling to themselves, and she had found the last stores of clistan to use for the opening toast. She put on her happiest face and led the song of thanksgiving. Charin, the eldest of the Athosians, began the ritual dance with each successive adult joining until the lengrals, those who had entered adulthood in the past year, were added.

The feast began in earnest, and the celebration lasted late into the evening. As Teyla observed her people with knowing eyes, she wondered how long their way of life would last before the Wraith came for them. The cave drawings spoke of massive destruction again and again. She smiled grimly; the Athosians were a resilient people. They would start over as they always had if the worst came.

She startled as Halling took a seat next to her. "We will survive, Teyla. You must believe that."

"Am I so easily read these days?"

"Only to someone who knows the burden you carry."

They sat in companionable silence as the lengrals initiated the final dance of the night. After the food had been cleared and the children put to bed, Teyla announced a meeting of the council for the next morning. Then she made her way to her tent to meditate and prepare.

OoOoOoOoO

The Athosian leadership was as grieved by the Genii culling as she had been. A group was selected to scout for a new location for the settlement, and word was spread of the upcoming move.

The new camp was established just before the first blizzard hit. As the weeks grew into months, life returned to normal for the Athosians. The snow thawed, and the foliage began to bud. As planting season neared, land was cleared and plowed.

Teyla walked through the fields, breathing in the scent of rich soil as she greeted those working, admiring their dedication. They faced the struggle to survive fearlessly and without complaint. Most days leading her people was a simple task especially with the support and assistance of the council and trusted advisors like Halling. Crime was practically non-existent in their small community, and they did not trade with strangers for that very reason.

Hendon, Mattas and the Belkan delegation arrived offering a disease-resistant strain of flax seed that would double their harvest in exchange for Athosian labor. Following intense discussion, an accord was reached, a labor schedule was made, and a delivery date for the seed was set.

After a ceremonial drink to seal the agreement, the Belkans returned home, and the Athosians went back to work. The seed was delivered and planted. Summer turned to autumn, and the crops grew in abundance while Teyla negotiated trades with numerous other worlds.

Always accompanying the first shipment, she slipped on her favorite coat and tugged her pack over her shoulder. Stepping through the Ancestral Ring to Manara, she led the six men carrying the harvest to the market place. She exchanged pleasantries with Smeadon as he inspected the crops. With a smile, he thanked her, and they retired to the council chamber to conclude the trade.

A sudden deep cold formed within her, and her eyes widened in horror. "Wraith!" she shouted, jumping from her chair and rushing outside.

Smeadon gaped at her, but the other Athosians leapt up and followed as she raced to the Ring. Small ships whined overheard, and the villagers' screams were cut off as they vanished into the culling beams. She reached the dialing pedestal, but the portal activated before she could press the glyphs. An explosion knocked her to the ground as dart fire hit a nearby building. The Manarans fled in panic, allowing the Wraith ships to herd them like livestock.

The Athosians scrambled to find shelter but were forced back by energy blasts at every turn. Surrounded by fire, Wraith visions, and culling beams, they were boxed in. Refusing to surrender, she gathered her people in the shadow of a burning wagon.

"We need to separate."

"Teyla!"

"There are seven of us, Kevla. One of us must live to take word back to Athos and perform the proper rituals. Hide, do what you can to survive, and return home when it is safe."

"Is it even possible to escape from the Wraith?"

Her chin lifted as she gripped his arm tightly. "We must try."

The men dipped their heads and bid her farewell. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself.

"Now!"

They scattered in every direction, and she sprinted toward the council chambers. Hurdling the remains of a wall, she ignored the Wraith shadows swirling around her and ducked under a fiery archway. Silvery beams flashed around her, sweeping up Kevla and two others. Diving for the door, she narrowly avoided the same fate. Grief stabbed her heart as she stumbled into the building, temporarily blind while her eyes adjusted to the darkened room.

The cold feeling inside intensified, and she tripped as she moved forward, landing hard. She scrabbled away from the doorway as a large figure filled it. Staggering to her feet, she whirled, glimpsing a flash of movement in the instant before something slammed into her chest. She was driven backward, collapsing onto a table as pain so intense she was unable to scream radiated through her. Flowing white hair brushed her face, and a howl filled the air. Then nothing.

**

* * *

John Sheppard**

John flipped through the charts of the rate analysis, studiously ignoring the families around him. He scribbled a few notes in the margin and emailed his assistant to set up a meeting with the CFO. The giggles of the little girl at the next table were shards meticulously slicing his insides. Draining the last of his beer, he tidied up his papers and tucked his PDA in his pocket.

"Will there be anything else for you tonight, Mr. Sheppard?"

"No, Sally. Thanks." He handed her his credit card.

"Be right back."

He risked a glance at the little girl. Blond curls bounced as she colored spastically on a child's menu and kept up a steady stream of chatter. When her parents exchanged a fond glance, John felt the knife in his chest twist. A happy family.

"Here you are." The server handed him his receipt and cleared the dishes while he signed.

"Thanks again, Sally."

"See you tomorrow, Mr. Sheppard."

Roaring out of the lot, he headed home. At this late hour, the roads were mostly free, and his Mercedes ate up the miles quickly. He wheeled into the six-car garage and parked between his Harley and the Ferrari. Refusing to look at the spot where the mini-van used to be, he closed the garage door and went into the pitch-black house.

Flicking on a light in the den, he dropped his files on the wet bar and poured himself a drink. The silence consumed him, and he turned the TV on to drown out the memories. Leaving the glass on the counter, he grabbed the bottle of bourbon and sank into the sofa, tipping his head to rest against the cushioned back. He clicked through a few channels with the remote but could only find crappy reality shows and infomercials. Settling on CNN, he let the voices of the anchors fill the room while he concentrated on drinking.

He woke a few hours later feeling worse than he had before. Stumbling to the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and breathed deeply through his nostrils to keep the nausea at bay. He dragged his fingers through his hair as he caught his reflection in the mirror. Taking a good, hard look at himself, he wondered when he had become his father.

The realization was a punch in the gut, and his knees weakened. He really had become his father – late hours, overindulging, sacrificing everything for the almighty dollar. He had lost everything he had ever cared about, ever wanted, because his job demanded more of him than there was to go around. Disgusted, he turned away.

Climbing the stairs, he pushed open the door to the nursery. Newly decorated in blue, it sat waiting to welcome home his son. He fingered the airplane border as he walked in and smiled at the tune the mobile played as it danced over the crib. Large blocks were stacked in a corner spelling out the name they had chosen – David, in honor of his brother.

His life had spun out of control when Dave died on the ski slope. His father's eyes had turned flat, blank, and he had curled up with a fifth of whisky, leaving John to make the funeral arrangements and deal with business acquaintances and family. The professors at Stanford had been understanding, allowing him to finish the semester by correspondence. He had filed for a hardship discharge from the ROTC program at Berkley and picked up the mantel left vacant by his older brother. An MBA from Harvard later, he worked his way up in the family business and took the reins three years ago when his dad died from heart failure.

Nancy had walked by his side the entire time, comforting and sharing in what little he was willing to give. But the demands of the company had slowly sucked the life out of him, and she couldn't take being shut out. He'd come home two weeks ago to an empty house.

He crossed the hall to the pink fairy world. Every time they tried to move Mayla to her own room, they found Sabrina cuddled next to her the following morning. Giving in to the inevitable, Nancy had remade the play area into a girlish fantasy land. Pink gauze hung over the beds, and a lifesize doll house occupied a corner. Toys littered the floor, but the favorites were missing, and guilt stabbed through him again.

The scent of bubblebath and baby shampoo wafted through the room, and he sat down heavily on Mayla's canopy bed. His precious first born – painfully shy, sensitive, generous to a fault, loving – especially toward her little sister. She was partial to ice cream, hugs and teddy bears. Sabrina was an almost polar opposite – a caring child who wanted to be the center of attention. She had never met a stranger, was silliness personified and completely fearless. She was partial to popcorn, bouncing on furniture, and chasing the family dog.

Staggering down the hall, he paused in front of the family pictures that covered the wall. His parent's tenth anniversary. May's kindergarten photo. Breenie's third birthday party. The vacation to Disney last year. His dad and brother at Dave's college graduation. Nancy's bridal portrait.

Pushing away from the visual reminders of the memories that haunted him, he weaved down the hallway and into their bedroom, _his_ bedroom. He closed his eyes at the hint of her perfume, the ache in his chest almost unbearable. The night before she left, he'd come home to find her asleep on the sofa, one arm around the girls and the other wrapped protectively around her growing belly. She had never looked so beautiful.

Losing his battle with the nausea, he barely reached the bathroom before the bourbon and dinner made a reappearance. After puking until he had dry heaves, he pulled himself up and rinsed the vile taste from his mouth, unable to meet his own eyes in the mirror. Running the shower as hot as he could stand, he stripped and let the water pound his shoulders and back, pretending that all the wet streaks on his face came from the faucet. He put on sweat pants and scrubbed his head with the towel as he wandered back into the bedroom. The family photo taken for last year's Christmas card had been framed and was staring at him from the top of the chest of drawers.

Picking up the frame, he noticed for the first time the stress lines on Nancy's face, how her smile that lit a room didn't reach her eyes. A cursory glance would reveal a happy family, but someone familiar with them would see the cracks. He gazed at his family, drinking them in. He'd promised himself years ago that his job would not take precedent. He wasn't sure when he'd broken that promise; it had been so gradual he hadn't noticed. He'd justified it by saying he was doing it for them, but that had been a lie too.

Grabbing the bedside phone, he placed a quick call to his secretary's voicemail, notifying her that he would not be in the next day and asking her to cancel his appointments. Lying down, he pulled Nancy's pillow to his chest, breathing in her scent, and fell asleep.

When he awoke the next morning, the picture was still clutched in his hand. Sliding on his favorite jeans and polo shirt, he padded to the kitchen and made breakfast – a real meal for once. The cook and maid were on paid vacation for now as were the chauffer and gardener. He savored a cup of coffee while he munched on pancakes. Wanting a bit of liquid courage, he glanced at the wet bar but talked himself out of it, choosing to be clear-headed instead.

After downing two aspirin, he had another cup of coffee while he read the paper. Amazingly, the world in general had kept turning while his world had fallen apart. Stuffing his feet into loafers, he grabbed the car keys and headed out.

The country drive to his mother-in-law's house was beautiful – the land was lush and green, the sky a radiant blue, and the nip in the air signaled the approach of winter. Nancy was a brilliant lawyer, but she was selective about cases and chose to work out of the house while the kids were small. Unless she had picked up a client in the last few days, she would be home with the girls.

Turning into the drive, he spotted the mini-van near the front door. He parked behind it, taking a deep breath to brace himself as he got out and rang the bell. Nancy answered with a surprised but guarded air.

"What are you doing here?"

She looked as tired as he felt, and he smiled hesitantly. "Hi. I, uh, wanted to talk to you."

Brows raised, her head tilted as she returned his gaze. "Really. You? Talk?"

"I know I suck at this, but I'm trying. Please."

"Mom," she called. "I'm going for a walk. Can you watch the girls for me?"

Her mother's muffled reply must have been affirmative because Nancy stepped out and closed the door behind her.

"What do you want?" Her expression alternated between terrified and pissed.

"You." His heart pounded as he prayed to not say anything stupid. "You and the girls."

She turned away from him, head bowed. "I can't, John. I can't live like that anymore."

Pulling her gently to face him, he grasped her hands. "I'm not asking you to. I'm asking you to give me another chance."

Laughing bitterly, she shook her head. "I have. Time and again I've told myself that things would be different. After the next buy-out. After the telecom crisis. After the next contract is signed. But there's never an end to it. You grow more distant by the day. I can see the misery in your eyes, but instead of letting me in, you push me away. And you're starting to do that to the girls."

"I would never hurt them."

"You missed Mayla's sixth birthday party. She cried for hours."

"I didn't mean to-"

"I know you didn't, but you did. You've made the company your priority, your first love."

"Love?" He jammed his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Love? I don't love the company. I hate it. This was never _my_ dream, Nance. It was my father's. After Dave, I couldn't-" He lowered his head as he fought for control.

She stepped into his personal space and forced him to look at her. "Say it."

John's first instinct was to turn away, to hide the raging emotions that threatened to overwhelm, but the small voice inside told him that this might be his only chance. Taking a shuddering breath, he met her gaze. "I couldn't stand the grief in Dad's eyes, the disappointment that I was the one who had lived. Dave was the perfect son, and I was the screw-up. Kicked out of every boarding school. Too small to play football. Wanting to do my own thing instead of follow in his footsteps. All I ever wanted to do was fly. But I walked away from it for him, to show him that I was as good as Dave." His voice dropped to a whisper. "It didn't work."

His whole body was shaking, and she slid her arms around him, pulling him close. "I know. Your dad let his grief control him, warp him."

He let his head fall forward to rest on her shoulder. "I don't want to be like him."

Leaning back, she cupped his face in her hands. "Then don't be. Sell the company. Buy a plane. Take flying lessons. Be my husband; be a father to our children. Do what you want to do. It's not too late." Her eyes widened, and she giggled. "I think your son agrees with me." She positioned his hand on her abdomen as their son gave a strong kick.

"Do you think he's ready to come home?"

She searched his eyes for a moment. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes." It wouldn't be easy – the counseling and the talking, _all_ of the talking, but he would do it. He would be the man she needed him to be, turn himself inside out if that's what it took to get what he really wanted.

He heard squeals that only small children can make, and the front door flew open as his daughters threw themselves at him. Kneeling, he scooped them up, cherishing the feel of their arms wrapped around his neck. Unconditional love was a rare thing.

He held tightly to the only thing he had ever wanted, ever needed.

A family.

**

* * *

Ronon Dex**

Ronon ran until he thought his heart would burst. He was so close to the Ring of the Ancestors. The Wraith had fallen for the trap he'd set, and he could almost taste freedom, at least as much freedom as he would ever get. No matter how hard he'd tried, he couldn't reach the cursed tracking device in his back. He knew they'd catch him one day, but he was going to kill as many of them as possible before then.

He slammed into the dialing pedestal and immediately punched in the first address he could remember. He checked over his shoulder; all clear. The ring blossomed to life, and he dashed through.

As soon as he hit the ground on the other side, he scurried to the dialer and input another seven symbols. He hurried through only to pause as he reached the new world. He had arrived at early dawn in the middle of a small, simple village. Few of the townspeople were stirring yet, but he still crept in the shadows as he searched for scraps. Rummaging through the pile of rubbish in one alleyway, he found a cast-off shirt that might fit but no food. He ducked down the next alley and smiled as the aroma of cooked meat greeted him.

Ronon wolfed down the discards of someone's evening meal. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He typically had a day before they located him, but he intended to be gone long before he could endanger these people. The small piles that littered the back alley yielded several hunks of bread, some moldy cheese that could be salvaged with a few quick slices of one of his knives, and some almost-rotten fruit. He stuffed as much as he could in the pockets of his longcoat and eased through the shadows to the edge of town.

Once he was clear of the settlement, he set out to find water. He knew the village would be close to a source, and as he stilled his breathing and listened, he was rewarded with a gurgle to his right. He moved silently through the underbrush of the forest that surrounded the town and found a pristine stream. Kneeling at the edge, he took a small sip, shivering at the cool refreshment it brought.

Dex removed the three water containers he carried and filled them then walked downstream until he found a spot he liked. It was on a small rise, affording him a clear view upstream with a strategically placed boulder that hid him from sight. He stripped and stepped into the water to wash off the paste he'd applied to protect his skin from the sunrays on the last planet. Once he had rinsed off and put on a fresh set of clothes, he scoured the shirt and pants he had been wearing and spread them on the boulder along with his longcoat, out of view from the banks of the stream.

After an hour a small group of women arrived bringing buckets and baskets of laundry. They talked and laughed as they hauled fresh water and cleaned their clothing, never once looking in his direction. He held perfectly still as two small children chased each other from their mother's skirts to his boulder and back. He was used to being invisible and could sit for hours without moving a muscle. Eventually the group finished their chores and headed back to town.

Ronon withdrew all eight of his knives along with his whet stone, his garrote, three throwing spikes and his blaster. He pulled the energy crystal, checking the charge and cleaning the chamber, then methodically sharpened each knife and throwing spike and examined the garrote for weak spots. He returned all his weapons to their proper place, ate a couple of pieces of fruit along with some bread and cheese, and lay down for a nap. He never slept well and only an hour or two at most.

He would normally try to kill some game, but he didn't want to risk getting too far from the ring. The scrap of paper with addresses had offered its last place of refuge several days ago. Searching his memory for any world he had not been to yet, he sagged in relief as one came to mind. Losara. He wouldn't stay, but he could get a new list of worlds to try. The bartender of his favorite drinking establishment knew every place in the galaxy as far as Ronon could remember.

As was his norm, he awoke an hour later. He put on his coat, repacked his still damp clothing and eased himself to the ground. Moving silently through the woods to the edge of town, he waited until all was still for the midday meal. He stayed in the shadows, slipping down the same alleys as before, finding a few more scraps which he ate rapidly as he crouched in a doorway. Whoever lived in this home was a poor cook, but it was filling.

Ronon Dex made his way to the Ancestral Ring without incident and dialed the coordinates of Losara, leaving without anyone ever knowing he'd been there.

Music and raucous laughter greeted him as he exited the ring to late night. This world had not improved since his last visit over a decade earlier, and he grinned at the memory. He had been wild in his younger days, before Melena, before knowing the truth about Kel, before the Wraith had stolen his life. His smile faded at the thought, and he wondered again if anyone on Sateda had survived. He had considered dialing its address and stepping through so many times, but his need to protect his homeworld overrode his need to know. He could never endanger his people with his presence.

His feet followed the remembered path to the bar, and he entered, immediately searching for Trilk. Spotting the bartender, he made his way toward him, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. His size was usually in his favor, but it did cause people to notice him. Trilk looked up as Ronon took a seat at the bar.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. I need information."

"I see. What kind of information?"

"Ring addresses for uninhabited worlds."

The man's brow creased as he considered Dex's words. "Uninhabited, you say. Why would a man want to go to an uninhabited world?"

Ronon kept his expression neutral. "I have my reasons. I heard you appreciated a good trade."

Trilk looked amused. "And you have something good to trade?

"Perhaps."

"How many addresses do you need?"

"As many as you have."

The bartender looked suspicious. "Are you being hunted, son?"

Dex bit back his temper. "Will you help me or not?"

"Hmm. What do I get in return?"

Ronon pulled a knife and handed it to Trilk.

The weapon was finely honed with perfect balance and an intricately carved hilt. Ronon had found it on the culled world where he'd found his blaster and throwing spikes. He hated to part with it, but he needed the addresses more than the blade.

The Losaran smiled. "This will do nicely." He found paper and a writing utensil and listed the symbols for fourteen worlds. "These worlds are either completely devoid of human life or close to it. But be careful, friend. They are uninhabited for a reason. The first one is an ice planet. Nothing lives there for very long. Now, can I get you anything else?"

The Satedans stomach growled loudly at that moment, and he grimaced in embarrassment. "No."

Trilk eyed him intently. "Have we met before?"

"Once, a long time ago."

As Ronon rose to leave, the bartender placed a hand on his arm. "Wait. I believe the knife is enough to cover the information I gave you plus the price of a hot meal and a room for the night."

Dex wavered as his whole body salivated at the thought. One night. The last time he had spent the night in a town next to the ring had ended disastrously. But he would only be here a few short hours.

He nodded his acceptance and took his seat as a young girl scampered to bring his food. A plate heaped with local vegetables, roasted meat and a thick slice of warm bread was placed in front of him along with a tall glass of Losaran ale. He forced himself to eat slowly, to savor each bite. To his surprise, he was brought a second plate when he finished the first. Unused to kindness, he swallowed his pride and accepted it gratefully.

He felt sated for the first time in seven years. Trilk smiled at him and showed him to a small but clean room with fresh linens on the bed.

"The bath is two doors down on your left. Is there anything else I can get you?"

Ronon drew a shaky breath. "No. You've done more than enough. Thank you for everything."

The bartender gazed at him sadly. "Rest for tonight. You are safe here."

Dex stood uncertainly, trying to decide what to do next. He appreciated Trilk's words but knew he would never be safe again. The bed was inviting, but he needed a real bath first. He walked down the hall to the room and was happy to find indoor plumbing that included hot water. He hadn't had a hot bath in years. Keeping his blaster within reach and praying fervently that the Wraith hadn't located him yet, he eased his aching body into the water.

He scrubbed until he took skin off, ridding himself of the stench of fear and death and destruction and war. Laying his head against the rim of the tub, he let a bit of tension drain from him. He knew it wouldn't last, that he would have just a few hours of relief before the running began again. He considered giving up, had considered it many times in the past. But as before, Melena's face came to mind. Closing his eyes against the image of the flames engulfing her, he allowed the rage to build, fueling his resolve to fight to his last breath.

After the water cooled, he climbed from the bath, dressed, and returned to his room. Again keeping his weapons nearby, he lay down on the bed, briefly wondering if he could sleep on something so soft after all these years.

The answer must have been yes since the sun was suddenly shining brightly in his face. He sat up in panic. _How long had he been asleep?_ It must have been hours. He hurriedly gathered his belongings and raced from the room. No one was behind the bar so he mentally thanked Trilk again and ran for the ring. He dialed the first set of symbols on his new list and strode through without looking back. He would never set foot on Losara again.

The cold on this new world was unimaginable. The wind burnt his face with its force, howling around him, stealing his breath. This could be a problem. The white of the ice was blinding, and he staggered forward into knee deep snow. Hopefully the Wraith would have difficulty tracking him here.

He explored the surrounding area, finding a series of caves to protect him from the wind. Trilk had been right about the lack of life – not a single plant. No wood for a fire, no food to eat. He couldn't stay here.

Ronon sat in the silence, staring at the lists of address and wondering how long it would be before they located him, before they finally killed him. He knew they would eventually. He couldn't run forever.

**

* * *

Rodney McKay**

Rodney fluctuated between awe and irritation as he watched the gateship disappear through the event horizon. A month's worth of work gone in a flash. He doubted he'd ever see the ship or that sexy blonde again. _How insane did you have to be to step through a wormhole to another planet?_

"Dr. McKay?"

Hammond's voice pulled him from his mental musings. "I can't believe that worked. Of course, all of my work just flew out of here. You realize we'll never see that ship again, right?"

"One thing at a time, Doctor. We appreciate all of your efforts over the past several weeks-"

"You can't seriously be kicking me out. There's too much still to be done! I could spend the rest of my life studying the stargate alone. How can you-"

"If you'll let me finish. We appreciate your hard work, and we know there's a lot more to do. Why don't you take a couple of days off to rest and relax? That gate isn't going anywhere, and I need you in top form to explain how it functions and where else we can go."

"Oh. Well, of course you do. I should get started now, though."

"Two days, Dr. McKay. Forty-eight hours. I don't want to see or hear you before then."

"Yes, well, OK, if you're sure…."

"I'm sure."

Hammond went upstairs, and Rodney took a last glance at the stargate before making his way to the lab. It was a small space, cluttered with text books, computers, white boards, and candy wrappers. Grabbing his jacket and keys, he started out the door but turned back to get the stack of files from his desk. Even if he never got to study the gateship again, he had a stargate to understand, and he needed more minions to assist him. He was sure no one would meet his standards, but he'd take what he could get for now. Hopping in his beat-up decade-old Honda Civic, he headed home.

His apartment was tiny by choice. He was rarely there, and he certainly never entertained. A maidservice came weekly so he didn't live in complete filth, and his cat was always glad to see him even if she didn't show it. His life totally revolved around his research.

Dumping the files on the sofa, he plopped down and flipped through the first few – incompetent fools who wouldn't know a wormhole from a quasar. The next one had potential, and he perused it a little more carefully.

"Zelenka, Radek, PhD. Professor of Theoretical Physics at Charles University, Prague, Czech Republic. Studied at blah, blah, blah. Published…. Good…. Married to Nadezda Zelenka, expecting first child."

Rodney snorted in disgust and tossed the file in the reject pile. He needed someone that could focus solely on research, be at his beck and call, not running home to the wife and the snotty-nosed brats.

The beginnings of hunger pains rumbled through his stomach, and he rummaged through his refrigerator, his eyes watering at the stench of whatever had died inside. Other than that, he found a mostly empty pitcher of lemonade, a jar of mustard, a bottle of ketchup, and a piece of fruit – brown, wrinkled and completely unidentifiable. The pantry was bare as well, even the cat food was gone. He sighed as he crumpled the reminder he'd stuck on the coffee pot last week. _Damn_. He couldn't think on an empty stomach.

Driving to his favorite corner store, McKay purchased a few items, adding a bag of cat treats on impulse, and climbed back in his car to retrace his path home. He was six blocks away when the vehicle rolled to a stop and died. Staring in dismay at the gas gauge, he remembered the other thing he was supposed to do. He hit the steering wheel in frustration. For a genius, he could be a real idiot sometimes.

He got out and turned in a circle, trying to recall where the closest gas station was. He walked to the end of the block and across the cross street to the end of the next block, berating himself the entire time. Spotting the station, he stepped into the crosswalk.

He never saw the truck coming.

OoOoOoOoO

Jeannie Miller stood in the intensive care unit of the United States Air Force Academy hospital staring at the body of the man they said was her brother. The missing years weren't the cause of her confusion; two and a half years wasn't long enough for her to forget what he looked like, but between the swelling, the bandages, the monitors, and the IV lines, she struggled to recognize anything that resembled a human.

Gauze swathed most of his head, and the bits of his face she could see were black and blue. She'd forgotten of the number of broken bones he had, but she remembered the most important one. According to witness reports, he had stepped directly into traffic. The truck had no chance of stopping, and Meredith had been tossed at least five meters. He had so many life-threatening injuries that the doctors were amazed he had survived. And now she had a decision to make.

She squinted at him, trying to find some semblance of her brother. Jeannie held the hand that was least damaged and listened to the hiss of the ventilator. The physicians had been blunt with her. His skull was more than fractured; massive head trauma had resulted in brain death. He would never regain consciousness.

She turned his arm slightly to inspect the inner area near his elbow and choked when she found what she was looking for. As a child, Meredith had been overzealous with a new chemistry set and almost lost an arm in the explosion. She traced the long, jagged scar until it disappeared under a bandage.

"How did it come to this, Mer?"

An Air Force major – Lark, Lord, Lorne, something like that – had appeared on her doorstep to deliver the news. She hadn't even known Meredith was working for the American government. After informing her of the accident, he helped arrange her transportation to Colorado, and when she arrived, she was given copies of Mer's papers, including his living will. She had known what it would say – no machines – but she read it carefully anyway. As next of kin, she still had to give permission, and she wasn't sure she could.

They hadn't been close, even as children, but when she'd chosen a family over a career, he'd gone ballistic. They hadn't spoken since, and she suddenly realized that now they never would. She stroked the back of his hand with hers as she thought of all the wasted time and opportunities, of what would never be. There would be no reconciliation between them; he would never know Madison or get married or have his own kids or really live.

"You don't have to decide today, Mrs. Miller."

She started at the doctor's voice. Jeannie laid Meredith's hand down, smoothing it flat, and turned to the neurosurgeon.

"You're sure there's no chance." It wasn't a question, not really, but she needed to hear it one more time.

The physician shook his head sadly. "We've monitored Dr. McKay's vitals very carefully. His EEG has been flat-line for the past three days. He shows no response to pain and has no cranial nerve reflexes. I'm very sorry."

Jeannie swallowed thickly and nodded. Regardless of their estrangement, she knew he wouldn't want this. Some men were all heart, but Meredith Rodney McKay was all brain. "I'll sign."

With an unsteady hand, she scribbled her name at the bottom of the forms, including the one for organ donation and bid a silent goodbye as they rolled his gurney to the operating room. Feeling numb, she stared blindly at the bedless space, drifting in a world of what-might-have-been.

"Mrs. Miller?"

A bald man she had met briefly upon arriving stood next to her. "I'm sorry. General…."

"Hammond, ma'am, and it's quite all right. I wanted to extend my deepest sympathies. Dr. McKay was a brilliant scientist, and his loss will be felt by all." The officer smiled gently. "Is there anything we can do for you, anyone we can call?"

"No, thank you. I'll, um, well, is it all right for me to take his body home? Do I need permission?"

"No. Make whatever arrangements you deem necessary. The Air Force will take him home for you."

"I appreciate that. Thank you again."

"If you ever need anything, please let me know." With a nod, he was gone.

A brilliant scientist. Not a good man but a brilliant scientist. Mer in a nut shell. He had spent his life in a lab, shut away from the world and other people. He wouldn't be missed; his loss would be felt, and she had no doubt that the scientific world would be a little less bright without him. She wondered just how much would go undiscovered without Meredith's drive and curiosity to search it out.

Walking outside, she phoned Kaleb, needing to hear his voice. He whispered words of comfort and promised that he and Madi would be on the next flight out. Taking a seat on a bench, she tried to decide what to do next. Call a funeral home, she guessed. There were no friends or other relatives to notify. She had been given his PDA and cell phone, finding numbers for every take-out place in town but not one for another human. Even her. Dropping her head in her hands, she grieved for all that had been lost.

"Oh, Mer. It wasn't supposed to end this way."

**

* * *

Epilogue**

Another low moan and a ragged gasp snapped Weir back to reality. Pained blue eyes blinked slowly at her then narrowed in rage. "Get away!" McKay growled as the heart monitor began to beep wildly.

"Easy, Rodney. You're home." She gently squeezed his arm, carefully avoiding the IVs and monitor leads.

His brows drew together in confusion, and he took a stuttering breath. "Elizabeth?"

"Yes, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"Hurts." He shuddered slightly as he shifted. "Team?"

"All here. Lorne found you and brought you back. Carson says they'll be fine though it will take a while before everyone's a hundred percent." She smiled as the muscles under her hand relaxed, and the monitor beeps returned to a normal rhythm. "Tell me that I should see the other guys."

The corner of his mouth quirked upward for a brief second before his breathing hitched and he winced in pain.

"I'll get Beckett to give you something."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the nurse said softly. "Dr. McKay will need to wait another half hour for his next dosage of pain meds. Taking them too close together could compromise his respiratory system."

Weir nodded and turned to him in sympathy. "Sorry, Rodney."

He huffed in irritation. "Damn voodoo."

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

A shadow crossed his face as his gaze flickered to his teammates. "No. Not yet."

"It's all right. We'll talk about it later. Go back to sleep."

"Can't," he moaned. "Tell me something. Anything. Just keep me entertained for the next thirty minutes."

Pulling up a chair, she contemplated the request and the man. "Did you get a chance to read any of the SGC mission reports when we were back on Earth?"

He snorted. "Please. Who had time? I brought the data files with me, though. I'll get to them eventually. Why?"

"Do you remember the other me telling us Janis took his time travel research with him?"

Understanding flooded his face, and a mixture of curiosity and hope replaced a bit of the pain in his eyes. "Are you telling me…."

"SG-1 found a jumper with a time machine in the back, and apparently they used it. It seems they found a jar in a dig near Giza…."

The End.


End file.
